


Testing

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: The Monkees, The Monkees (TV)
Genre: BDSM, F/M, Impact Play, Light Dom/sub, Riding Crops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 19:06:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11857788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: For the prompt: 'I was wondering if you could possibly write me some good ol fashioned late 60s sweet/dominate mike smut??'Of course I can. Mike has a new toy, and you two are gonna have a go.





	Testing

“Open your pretty mouth.”

You do so, looking up at your master, and he walks around you, those long, impossibly long legs pacing around you with apparently little effort. He’s inspecting you – his property. The thought gives you chills, and then he is in front of you again, hands behind his back.

“Good girl. Always ready. Close your eyes, baby.”

You do so – ever obedient – and something is placed against your lips – it’s tough, and tastes of leather.

“You know what this is, sweetheart.” You aren’t sure – you think it’s… “What is it?”

“Riding crop?” you say, and next second there’s a cracking sound, and you hiss as your rib stings. “Ah…!” You almost  _hear_  the grin spread across his face, but you daren’t open your eyes.

“ _Sir._ ” You swallow sharply.

“Riding crop, Sir.” You hear him move, possibly kneeling down – his lips meet yours. Definitely. You smile a little, and open your eyes just as he pulls back, those beautiful, deep eyes fluttering open and rounded in happiness.

“You’re so beautiful. Good girl. Now…” He stands up again, and extends his hand to you. “Come on, baby. I’m gonna test this out on you ‘fore we go.” You take it, and he pulls you close. “You are beautiful. Enough to make a man cry, girl.”

“Shush, Sir,” you grin, and he kisses you deeply, hands brushing through your hair; you relax, body trembling, and so are unprepared when his fingers tighten and he pulls, staring into your eyes as you whimper in shock.

“Well done. Lie down on the bed, on your back – I know a good li’l whore like you knows how to do that,” he says, and you do so immediately, hands gripping onto the headboard. “You’re a pretty lil picture, honeybee.”

“Not as handsome as you, Sir,” you say, and he smiles a little.

“Y’know, for bein’ cute like that, I won’t add any more. We’re only going to ten, baby.” You’ve gone up to fifty before with a riding crop – but you have somewhere to be, and also this toy is  _new_. He’s been desperate to try it all day, and you’re not averse either to seeing him with a crop – you bat your lashes, and he raises an eyebrow. “What do you  _want_?”

“Will you take your shirt off? Sir?”

He pauses for a moment, and then pulls his shirt off over his head, not even unbuttoning it. You take in the sight of him in just jeans, and a thrill runs through your body as you imagine running your fingers through his dark chest hair; he winks at you, and then places the tip of the crop against your inner thigh.

“You know what to do, honey.”

 _Crack_. You whimper, and he grins.

“One, Sir.”

“Perfect.”  _Crack_. Your other thigh stings, and you gasp again.

“Two, Sir.”

“Be thankful.” He grins. “I’m not gonna cause any marks where anyone can see ‘fore we go out. Roll over- wait.” You stare at him, eyes wide, and he bites his lip, before raising his arm; you flinch, and he bares his teeth. “ _Watch_. Whore.”

 _Flick_  – he strikes your breast and you arch in pain and arousal, a mewl of surprise spilling from your mouth.  _Flick_. The other one, and you feel your nipples harden even as the after-pain stings them both, your fingers still gripping the headboard.

“You wanna keep counting?”

“F-four, Sir.” It feels so good, and you writhe on the bed. “Sorry, Sir.”

“Better. Roll over, we’re gonna be late.” You do so, wincing as your tender skin brushes over the cotton bedsheets, and he whistles lowly. “Hot damn, girl. One’a these days, I might just make you go out like that.”

You giggle, and then feel his hand on your ass – he strokes up and over the curve of your hip and then out over your back tenderly.

“Nah,” he says, after a moment. “I’d be a jealous, jealous man, if I did that.” He steps back. “Here we go. Remember to count, honeybee.”

The crop cracks against the skin of your ass, and you wince, counting the halfway mark with a gasp. Again, and you flex a little, only to have his warm hand on your cool skin, keeping you still. Twice more, and you like this new toy already – it’s more flexible, meaning the initial sting hurts less, but the burn afterwards leaves you tingling.

 _Crack_. “Nine, Sir.”

“You’re a good girl.”

 _Crack_. “Ten, Sir.”

There’s silence, for a moment, and then he gently lies you down.

“I think I like this one.” You look sideways, and he sits next to you, stroking your hair gently. “What are you thinkin’, sweet thing?” You nod – you’re not usually very verbal after – and he smiles. “Good. Now, you need somethin’ on that ass. Sadly, not my hand, either.” You grin, and he roots around for something cooling. “Then… you’re gonna get dressed, and we, my sweetheart, are gonna head out.”

“Why did you want to test it out now?” you ask, a little hoarsely, and he kisses your cheek. “Why not wait ‘til afterwards?”

“You need a drink, little darlin’. And because… well. We’re goin’ out to a party. There’s gonna be loads of people there, all of ‘em eyein’  _you_  up.” He smirks. “An’ I want you to remember me every time your ass brushes up against the fabric of your pretty little dress.”

“Oh, Sir,” you groan theatrically, and he grins.

“C’mon. I chose your outfit, baby.” He sighs, lovingly. “Go and get your dress, pretty thing. I’ll get your drink.”

* * *

“(Y/N!)”

Davy lifts you up – you can’t believe it either – and twirls you around, before hugging you and kissing your cheek in delight.

“You look lovely, really, luv, ravishing,” he beams, and Peter appears beside him, holding a drink and smiling.

“Hello, dear,” he says, amiably. “I saw Michael at the bar. I hope he’s getting you a drink too.”

“Of course, Peter.” You grin, and he puts his arm around you – being Peter, of course his hands wander, and he settles his palm on your arse, pulling you closer for a moment. It is all you can do not to hiss in discomfort, and then Mike appears.

“Quit palmin’ my girl, Pete,” is all he has to say, mildly, but as he hands you a glass of alcohol, you see the glint in his eye, and sigh. Later… later is going to be fun indeed.


End file.
